Coming King
by Catchy Turn
Summary: During the course of the Great War, Harry Potter discovers some rather twisted aspects of himself that can no longer be ignored. Dark fic, eventual HPDM.
1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: I do not now, nor will I ever own anything even remotely associated with J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter. Unless the pajamas I have count, that is…

Coming King

"The killings have gotten worse," Auror Shacklebolt said gravely to the assembled Order of the Phoenix. The members sat crowded around the kitchen table which, to Mrs. Weasley's chagrin, was always dirty and on the verge of very near collapse. There was no break in the weary faces at that news. In times of war, something is always going wrong or getting worse. There was no getting around such things, it was simply a way of life, so they'd all come to accept it.

"But they've decreased in number," Ron Weasley stated, a confused look flitting across his face. "The number of Muggles killed has gone down dramatically since the last battle."

It had such an ominous ring to it, the last battle. Dark and foreboding, the words spoke of times fresh in all their memories. Times spent running through pouring rain across open spaces, scared even to gasp for breath lest you be noticed in the ever spreading darkness. Times spent crouched behind crumbling stone walls, arms thrown over your head to stop the showers of rock and blood. The rock was the premature destruction of feeble defenses, the blood someone's best friend, sister, lover. Half the time it was the poor soul who had been standing next to you only moments before while you watched them die and knew you could do nothing to save them.

The wizarding community had eons before any sort of final battle. There would be no end to this war they were struggling through. There would always be fighting, always be merciless slaughter and tears. They could only pray for easy deaths. That was the optimistic view. In reality, Voldemort's forces were quickly gaining power faster than anyone had thought possible. Hordes of creatures from the dark world were flocking to his aid, determined to stop those who had been oppressing them for so many years. And at Voldemort's hands, none at the table would be granted an easy death. Torture and humiliation lay before them all if they were defeated. That was the one thing that pushed them to continue fighting. They were no longer trying to save the world, for that was out of the question. They were simply trying to save themselves.

"And though that is a definite plus, Mr. Weasley," Shacklebolt said, handing out phoenix crested debriefing folders to the assembled members, "I said nothing about the killings increasing; I merely said they'd gotten worse.

A low murmur went around the kitchen table of Number 12, Grimmauld Place at those words. Nothing would ever get better. The situation could only continue its unstopped downward spiral until eventually they would have to reach up to hit the bottom of it all.

"What do you mean, worse?" Hermione asked tentatively, one hand toying with the edge of the notes in front of her. She knew better than to open them before advised. Without a vocal and magical go ahead from the head Auror, the notes were spelled to burst into flame.

As a silent answer to her question, Shacklebolt produced his wand from the insides of a rather bulky overcoat and merely said, "Open." The phoenixes adorning the folders glowed a brilliant gold and the clasps securing them closed opened with a snap. He gestured that they go ahead and open them.

A rustle of paper later and the weariness in the room was instantly replaced with fear and disgust. More than one hand was pressed to a mouth in the attempt to quell an uneasy stomach.

The images staring up at them were ones of unmistakable horror. Each, with few exceptions, contained a singe person, yet in most of the photographs it was barely distinguishable that they had, in fact, been people. It looked as though in some of the pictures that the photographer had tried to arrange the bodies as they would have been in life, but found they had no stomach for the task and given up.

Arms lay separated from shoulder blades, legs bent in too many places at peculiar angles, and lidless, empty sockets peered out with no discernable eyes. One of the victims was a boy of about twelve who seemed to have had his hands burned off entirely to the wrists.

"This one here," the Auror pulled a picture from the substantial stack he held, "was found to have a finger lodged in his throat." The man in question had only one finger remaining. "The rest were found in his stomach when it was opened during autopsy. But apparently he suffocated to death."

The room was completely silent save for the slide of paper and the occasional disgusted gasp. Tears began to slide down George Weasley's face as he found a picture of a girl no older than Ginny with what looked like tiny holes drilled throughout her entire body.

"As you can all see," Shacklebolt said in the attempt to get the meeting back to order, "these are Muggle photographs." It was doubtless, however, that the subjects could not have moved if they were Wizarding photographs either. "We've been working with their police to help us figure out who's behind this."

"Is that all you can say, Kingsley?" Remus said remorsefully, brown eyes scanning over the images. "Look at these for one moment and realize that they were once alive and unmarred."

"Worse things happen on the battlefield, Remus," the Auror said, trying to placate his friend, "there's no need to-"

"This wasn't a battlefield," Professor McGonagall broke in after having recovered her voice. "This was done in the privacy of someone's home! To unarmed civilians, no less!"

"I've never seen anything like this one," Ron said quietly as he slid one of the colorful photos to the center of the table. "We've seen most forms of torture but I don't understand this."

"It's Muggle," a new voice said so softly that it almost went unnoticed.

All eyes turned to the far end of the table where Harry Potter had been silently sitting for the duration of the meeting. "It's a religious reference."

He took the offered photograph from Ron and wet his lips, trying to push away the feelings starting to boil to the surface under his calm façade.

"When Christ was killed to save the souls of mankind," he continued just as gently, "he was crucified on a cross between a thief and a murderer."

Hermione nodded, scanning over the picture before averting her gaze once more. They were the only two in the room who had even the slightest training in the more religious aspects of life.

"The Savior of the world was coldly murdered between two criminals, effectively lowering his status as the son of God himself to that of a common law-breaker in the eyes of his people. The world became slowly more and more corrupt as the good of life began to die out. The ones who had followed him were beginning to turn their backs on him. Until he was finally betrayed by one of his own, one that he had dearly loved." Harry's voice was beginning to tremble with his effort to stay even somewhat collected. "But this middle cross is empty. Almost as if this, this sick person, is yet to find their own personal Christ."

"This death doesn't look as terrible as some of these other ones," Ron offered hesitantly. "It could be worse, I mean, look at this one." A middle aged woman was shown still floating in the red water she had drowned in.

"You want to have nails driven through your wrists and feet, do you?" Fred spat angrily.

Harry felt a surge of something convulse within himself at the thought.

"You'd best keep those opinions to yourself if you want to have anyone speaking to you," George finished for his twin.

"It's not the nails that really kill you," said Harry. "On a cross, the person being crucified has a sort of a seat. But they can only stay on it if they push themselves up with their feet."

Not a sound was made as all listened attentively to the young man speak. Apparently he was well versed with this sort of circumstance.

"The feet that are supporting you, however, are consequently nailed to a plank of wood, so the slightest pressure is enough to make you wish you were already dead. Such a pain, none of us can even begin to comprehend. There are two ways one can die on a cross. The first and more pleasant of the two is blood loss. The second comes when you finally give up all hope and allow yourself to go limp. If you're lucky, your legs won't instantly snap. If not, you have to deal with that agony, plus the ones in your wrists as your body weight begins to tear at the nails holding them to the cross. Though sometimes when your legs break they are forced upwards into vital organs, killing you quicker, which is always a relief. But if not, the pressure of your entire body then settles on your lungs and you slowly begin to suffocate."

Harry's eyes had glazed over as he spoke and the entire order was spellbound by the recitation. Remus made as though he was going to put a hand on the boy's shoulder, but he jerked away with a flinch, not allowing himself to be touched even by Remus.

"I'm sorry," he said dazedly. "I think I talked too much." He closed the folder before him, effectively shutting out the carnage, and pushed it away from him. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and rested back against the hard wood of the chair he was sitting in, cutting himself off from the rest of the Order.

"So what exactly are we supposed to do about this?" The hesitant voice of Tonks came from across the table. "What do the Muggles want us to do for them?"

"They simply want this person stopped," Shacklebolt said, smoothly taking control of those assembled. "But we need to find out if they're working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or if they're simply alone and psychotic. We aren't even sure if they're a wizard or a Muggle yet, but either way they must be stopped."

"We're to make sure that Pontius Pilate doesn't find his Messiah," Harry said, his eyes suddenly blazing to life. "We're to make sure that Judas doesn't bring the Christ to him so that the third cross won't be occupied. Somehow the outcome will save or destroy the world."

"Of course, Harry," Shacklebolt said, not really understanding the people he was alluding to. Some of them were almost beginning to think the boy's mind had been turned by the gruesome images.

"I want to be the one to do it," he said just as suddenly. "I want to bring this bastard to justice. No one gets away with this, not even in war."

Seeing the passion in his eyes, and knowing that finding the person was out of the question, Shacklebolt relented. "Of course, Harry," he repeated. Everyone understood that sending the Boy Who Lived on a wild goose chase would keep him out of harm's way. "We all wish you the best of luck with your search, and we will all help in any way that we can."

The fire that had been brilliant in Harry's eyes was doused and he slumped forward onto the table. The people around him slowly disbanded and he was soon left alone in the empty kitchen.

Harry raised his head off the table nearly an hour later, his eyes red and his visage confused. Disgust was sliding down over him, curling up gently into the dusty air, yet he was desperately trying to suppress a shiver of desire that he couldn't seem to shove down. He felt sick to his stomach yet there was a shortness to his breath that couldn't be explained away. Not understanding his own feelings in the slightest, Harry pushed himself back from the table and walked mechanically from the room. Only time would help him figure it out.

---


	2. The Dream

Disclaimer: Again, I do not own the magnificence that is JK Rowling's creation. This little figment of mine shall be taking a darker turn as it runs its course, so I hope you shall take this as due warning. I don't usually write like this, ever, so if you have any helpful tips or hints you'd care to bestow, please feel free.

And I want to give the most heartfelt thank you I've ever given to a one Moonlight-6056 for being my first reviewer ever. You are wonderful and I send you a virtual basket of cookies. If you like them. 

Coming King

Chapter Two

"Before we begin today's session, class, I'd like you all to take a moment to please welcome our special guest, Mr. Harry Potter."

Harry's eyes jerked up off the floor to see over a hundred sets of eyes swivel around to look him over. He waved a weak hand at them before quickly refocusing his attention to the clipboard he'd been doodling on before the instructor had narrowed him out. He'd been hoping that he'd be able to pass through the class quietly without a scene being caused, but that did not appear to be the case. He was currently seated in the very last row of the Psychology and Sociology classroom of Piedmont College where he was sitting in on the class of one of the finest departmental heads of the human mind in the world.

Supposedly this little excursion would help him gain a few insights into the type of person they were trying to find back home, but Harry didn't think much of the idea. So far it had only caused him the faint, Portkey induced nausea that he'd grown accustomed to. The real reason he'd been sent away, he knew, was to keep him out of everyone's hair for a while so they could get some work done. Everyone was starting to get annoyed with him haunting their every step, begging to be let in on some actual fieldwork. He was tired of being hidden away from the world, being protected from the big bad war. So he was getting to be an eyesore, a pathetic little figure who just needed to be thrown a bone every now and then to keep him happy and out of the way.

"Mr. Potter has been sent to us from the Police Force in London so that they may glean some of the vast knowledge," the teacher nodded to his class, "from your project presentations." He directed his attention towards the quiet man in the back of the room to explain. "They merely have to lecture on the topic they were assigned to, I'm sure you'll find it just as enlightening as if I myself were teaching the class. Now, before we begin, does anyone have any questions?"

A hand was raised. "Yes?"

"I was just wondering," the boy began nervously, "why would the British Police need information on the psychological effects of torture and the mental profiles of rapists? Is there some new kind of Jack the Ripper type guy we should all be worried about?"

Harry almost smiled despite himself. He admired in Muggle culture how far back they had to reach to find an antagonist. Had any wizard asked that question, Voldemort would have been immediately brought into the conversation, but not with Muggle students. They found safety and comfort in the past, knowing somehow that true evil no longer existed in their world.

"I'm sure Mr. Potter could answer that question far better than I," the instructor granted. "Mr. Potter?"

"Nothing to worry about, really," he said lightly, noting the sighs that went around the room at his accent, "there's no one that twisted left around our part of the world. This is more for help training in the event that we ever need this sort of knowledge than anything else." He didn't like lying to them, but he would have liked telling them the truth even more.

"There you have it," the teacher said. "Have no fear. Now, the first up is," he consulted a sheet of paper, "Mr. Andrews with acquaintance rape."

Harry managed to sit and listen all the way up through a Mrs. Carlisle presenting ancient Germanic methods of torture before he gave up taking notes. Considering they were going in alphabetical order, this was not the greatest feat. So far on his clipboard he had managed to write down about four words and had drawn a rather remarkable likeness of absolutely nothing. He surreptitiously cast a wandless recording spell and sank down in his seat, telling himself that he'd go over all of it later.

---

It was two in the morning and Harry still had not finished writing down all that he needed to. Hermione knew some tricky little spell that converted everything that the caster heard into writing, but for the life of him he couldn't remember how it was done. Furthermore, he wouldn't have trusted himself to perform any sort of magic when he was operating under this much stress and on this little sleep. Only the magic needed to activate the recorder and then he drew the line.

He'd been scribbling notes for over an hour, cursing his laziness earlier in the day all the while before he felt himself begin to nod off over the pages. Shutting off the recorder with a curse he began to flip through what he had accomplished thus far. He'd covered acquaintance rape, random rape, gradual procession, sadistic rape, and sadomasochism in real life, as well as forms of torture including pitchcapping, water boarding, disfigurement, and choking. Those were the words he had transcribed, though if you asked him what they meant, he wouldn't have the slightest idea of where to even begin.

Harry let out a tired sigh. If he hadn't have already lived through part of the war to end all wars, this alone would have been enough to give him nightmares for the rest of his life. Though he had learned to tolerate the sleeping nightmares far more than the waking ones, he would prefer to have neither at all. Pure sleep. That was one luxury he hadn't been allowed since he was seventeen. And that was three years ago. Only three years. Harry rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. It seemed like so much longer ago that he was just another care free teenager, looking forward to graduation like all the rest, not having a care in the world besides who to take the closing ball and what his final scores would be. But he'd given up on reminiscing about the past. It only made the present all that much more difficult to deal with. And it was hard enough as it was without the extra help of pleasantly painful memories.

Tossing the files near the end of his small bed, Harry resolved to get at least a few hours sleep before going back to face the world. Even if it was only three or four, it would be more than he'd gotten in the past few weeks.

---

There was a man.

Harry was walking slowly down a dark avenue of tress, the silence pressing in around him. It was almost as though he were suspended underwater for the light had that characteristic clouded look, the type where one tries to push the mental cobwebs aside, but finds that they can't. For in reality – as tarnished as it may be – there is nothing in front of them but their own hand, striving to get rid of nothing. But more importantly there was a man.

He was at one end of the lane while Harry seemed to be mired at the other. Though he tried to move his feet, he found that it was next to impossible for he had seemed to have grown roots that were hidden to his sight. He tried to struggle, but soon gave up, knowing that it was of no use. Looming behind the stranger was a house. In another lifetime it would have been in the height of fashion, a marvel of modern architecture with stately columns and a sweeping porch, but now it was only a relic of times long past. Vines were creeping up every surface as though to strangle the soul of the building while there seemed to be an ever present carpet of mist barely holding it onto the earth. The lawn was sprawled about the house, stretching on for what seemed like miles on all sides, but it was the farthest from kept. The whole thing looked as though it was completely deserted and about to fall down into itself as derelict things are so very wont to do.

The man was unmistakably beautiful yet there was a certain masked wildness in his eyes that Harry couldn't quite feel at ease with. He'd seen eyes like this before, but never had they been set within the confines of a human face. Whilst doing reconnaissance work for the Order, he'd been sent out into the western mountains to spy on colonies of lycanthropes. Horrible creatures, they were, the ones that had been totally turned to the side of the dark. Voldemort had so corrupted their minds that there wasn't even the slightest semblance of humanity left. When the moon wasn't at its fullest potential, however, the poor beasts could almost pass for normal people. Almost, save for their eyes. Those would forever be locked in an internal struggle between the shadows their lord had implanted and the lost souls struggling for freedom. Those were the eyes of the man before him. They were lost, but it was as though they had given up and no longer had any hope of being found.

The longer Harry stared, the more he found himself sinking into the gaze. His thoughts were conflicted, he wanted to move closer but something deep within him was telling him to run, run faster and farther then he ever had before. But he couldn't. His feet still wouldn't carry him. They simply would not tear away from the earth. The confusion that he'd felt originally was beginning to spiral down into something closer to fear now, which was strange for him. The Boy Who Lived was not one to feel something so inconsequential and meaningless as fear. It was an emotion that got one nowhere. His thoughts were distracted by the man at the opposite end of the lane pulling something from his coat pocket, his hand dipping gracefully in and out.

Harry felt an icy numbness spreading up his legs and reached down to try to yank them bodily from the ground which just would not let them go. He struggled vainly for a few more moments before giving up. Raising his head, he let out a gasp, for mere inches from his face were a pair of eyes eerily similar in color to his own. He stared transfixed into the near reflection, feeling something slip into his own pocket, but he was unable to tear his eyes from the ones looking back.

"Welcome home, Harry," the man said lovingly, his voice almost too soft to make out. The numbness in Harry's legs instantly turned into fire, filling his body with an unbearable heat.

"Harry, are you all right?" a pounding on the door made Harry's eyes snap open, frantically trying to adjust to the darkness that surrounded him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he called back, pushing the tremor from his voice, "just another nightmare is all."

"All right," came Hermione's worried tone through the wood, "try to go back to sleep, ok?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry said, more to himself than to her as he looked around his room in the Black Mansion in shock.

"I'm worried about him, Ron," Hermione said outside the door. "Did you hear how easily he said "another nightmare" instead of just "a nightmare"? That can't be a good sign."

"Come on, Hermione," Ron said confidently, "it's a war, everyone has nightmares. I'm sure Harry's fine, he's just tired is all. Besides, after today's meeting, I just might have nightmares myself."

"I suppose you're right."

Harry waited until he had heard them walk away before sitting up to survey the extent of the damage. It was a nice enough sentiment, that they cared about his wellbeing, but they were more worried about themselves. What ever would they do without their Savior?

The room looked as though it had been ripped apart by some sort of magical maelstrom. Clothes had been torn from his duffel by the foot of the bed and cast across the room, paintings were lying separate from their frames, and all the notes he had written down from the American class and compiled on the possible mental states of the man he was to track were strewn on the floor, blanketing the room in profiles of rapists and sadists.

Untangling his legs from the sheets that were holding them twisted to the bed, Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to push away the last vestiges of his dream. He had fallen asleep with his clothes on again. Harry wearily pulled off his shirt, sighing as the cool air hit his fevered skin. The blankets were all but mired to him by his sweat, a feeling that he would have himself rid of. Undoing the button of his jeans, Harry's hand collided with something that he would have much rather avoided getting stuck in. With a sharp curse he cast a cleaning spell on himself, his wand appearing in his hand almost as quickly as if Voldemort himself had been in the room. Harry was more than a bit disgusted at himself, nothing about the dream had been stimulating in the least, quite the opposite really, but apparently it hadn't taken much. That was another setback of war. Zero companionship. Sure, there were friends and whatnot, but most people didn't live long enough to be anything more than a quick lay so there wasn't much of a point of it in the first place. Not that anyone would sleep with the Boy Who Lived. Either they were in awe of him or they saw him as just another kid thrown into something that was too much for them to handle. Neither of which made good pick-up lines in clubs or bars. Again, not that there were any left.

Sliding his jeans off the rest of the way, he felt something solid bump into his hand. He turned the item of clothing upside down and was confused to see a matchbook slide from one of the pockets. He picked it up curiously, noting that there was only one match left. Instantly he was reminded of his dream, the man slipping something from his own pocket into Harry's. The young man's eyes widened in understanding and he turned the cardboard over.

The Counting House. 67 Reform Road, Dundee, Tayside.

---


	3. One Step Closer

Disclaimer: Same as before, really.

A/N: Thanks go to the lovely Moonlight-6056 and Fireflychild999. You two are apparently the only ones who like this particular story, so you shall receive all the prizes I shall be handing out when it's complete. smiles So thank you both!

This chapter isn't all that interesting, in my opinion, but it gives you some insight into two of our main characters, so it's a necessary evil. There shall be much more action in the next one, so hopefully no one shall get bored.

Coming King

Chapter Three

Draco Malfoy was not pleased. No, to restate that gross inadequacy, he was incensed enough to kill. Even though he had sworn on pain of death to uphold whatever orders were issued to him, there was never any sort of agreement about him being happy about any of them in the least. How many subordinates of an evil overlord are truly happy anyways? So long as he did as he was told like a good little Death Eater and was always the model minion while in his lord's presence, he could bitch and moan to the most far reaching extent of his abilities. So long as it was silently and to himself, that is. This was one of those situations.

For the first time, Draco was almost considering throwing in the towel and becoming a free agent. To whom, he didn't know, but he was very nearly fed up with just about everything. No more of this scraping and bowing nonsense for him. It was almost getting to be just the slightest bit melodramatic. Yes, he wanted to be treated like an adult for once, but there were times when all he really wanted was to throw a tantrum and pitch a fit until his father promised to fix everything to his liking. That's how his entire childhood had worked, old habits die hard.

But there was no father to protect him now. No, father was in Azkaban with all the other nasties of the world. And it wasn't fair. The bastard, getting himself locked away. It was a stupid oversight of his and now his son was having to pay the price. Not because Draco actually truly cared for his father, that was far too much to ask from the son of pureblood. No, he was so terribly upset because he would have done basically anything to get out of this crap assignment that the Dark Lord had so graciously bestowed upon him.

While everyone else got to have a rollicking good time torturing and killing Muggles simply for the sport of it, Draco was forced to go on some silly secret mission. They would all get to wear masks and black cloaks while he had to wear beat up traveling clothes in an effort to blend in. Malfoy's, as a rule of their entire lives, did not blend in! They got to make the front page of every wizarding newspaper around the world while he had to go tramping through the muck to find a man who may not even exist. Malfoy's do not tramp and even if they did, it most certainly wouldn't be through any sort of muck! They got to have all the fun and he had to do all the stupid undercover work. It just wasn't fair. He never even got to fight! This was almost worse than the stupid research teams he'd first been assigned to. And even then he hadn't been on the lead team. That would have been so much more befitting to his standard of life; they at least got to research interesting things.

When Draco had first signed up for this job, he'd expected something a bit more glamorous then covert operations. Was that really so much to ask for? I mean, really, the son of the second in command to the darkest wizard of all time and all he got to do was go on a wild goose chase all over England. How dumb is that. Why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would even need a crazy psycho was beyond Draco anyways. He had plenty already, why waste time by going searching for a new one? There were dozens of them waiting in line to be found, they'd sought him out, even. He'd even thought that with his father gone, maybe the dark lord would choose him to be his successor, but no. Not a chance.

On the outside, Draco was striving to be the very model of evil and make his mother proud, but it was just so difficult. Who ever would have guessed that evil was such hard work? Back in his school days it just came naturally to him, there was no one who could escape his wrath. Not even Potter himself! He was looked up to and feared, everyone knew his name. Younger students would only whisper his name they were so terrified. They told each other horror stories of the Slytherin prince, the one who would come for them if they weren't in bed by curfew. But now, now was a different story entirely. No one in the Death Eater ranks was scared of a nineteen year old blonde. They just weren't.

No matter how many Muggles Draco killed or how many times he glared menacingly at them, they just wouldn't respect him. So on the inside, he was an outraged three year old, beating his tiny fists on the floor when things wouldn't go exactly how he planned. It even seemed like the dark lord himself was simply tolerating him, tossing him an idiotic mission every now and then simply to make him happy. He tried to be the best lapdog he could, but it was just too much work.

An owl tapping at Draco's window made him look up from his self pity gathering most apathetically. Oh super, one of those secret communiqués that you read about in cheesy novels was waiting to be admitted inside. The boy let out a long suffering sigh and pulled the window open, scowling all the more fiercely at the rain that blew in along with the insignificant looking bird. No one was even allowed to use the more ostentatious and showy delivery owls that most of the dark lord's followers had. Apparently they were too easy to trace. So not even the mail could come in style anymore. He personally thought that if only the followers of the dark lord were sending messages via boring birds then the Ministry might have caught on to something by now, incompetent fools that they were. Muttering to himself, Draco ripped open the letter, dully noting that it was from Severus and should be destroyed after it was read, utmost importance, and the rest of the usual blah blah blah.

Draco scoffed to himself at the contents of the letter, shooing the owl back out of the house. If it had stayed in any longer, the whole place would have started to stink of wet bird and that was just too much to contend with along with such annoying news. Apparently Harry Potter was also on the lookout for the mystery man, or so their secret Order of the Phoenix spy would leave him to believe. Honestly, everyone knew who it was, why couldn't they just be open about it? Everyone knew he was stuck on research duty, why not let everyone know Severus was a spy? It was practically the same thing anyways.

So maybe when Potter got there they could all go out for tea together before they killed everyone in a twenty mile radius in an attempt to rid the world of the other. Try narrowing your search to the area of Tayside, England, the letter read in not so many words. That was the direction Potter was heading. Oh right. Just follow Potter wherever he goes. Surely he wouldn't get suspicious that way. It wasn't like he was trained to know when he was being tailed or to be able to tell if another wizard was within the area And perhaps he was just going to visit a sick aunt or something in Tayside. Not everyone is automatically looking for a murderer whenever they go out of town for a few days.

And why would he want to follow that scruffy headed creature anywhere? Why would he want to follow Potter's lead when he was perfectly capable of making his own conjectures, thank you very much. He crumpled the piece of parchment into a ball and tossed it into the fire, watching as the red wax seal melted and imprinted itself on the fiery logs. This sucked.

Draco sighed. His anger had been replaced by a serious case of pouting. It just wasn't fair.

---

Hidden green eyes flicked warily over the sign in front of him. _The Counting House_, it read in messy letters, almost unreadable for the amount of dirt obscuring it. The piece of metal was hanging suspended by a solitary chain, the other having snapped years ago if the rust coating it was anything to go by. No one cared enough about it to have the links repaired, so the building had fallen into disrepair, a rather dilapidated and unwelcoming feel clinging to it. The windows were filthy, so covered in grime that Harry couldn't have seen through to the inside even if he had been granted with perfect sight.

The walkway leading up to the swinging entrance was cracked, plants growing up between the stones in their attempt to take back what had once been theirs. It looked as though they were stained with a good many unmentionable things and a wrong step could send you tumbling onto the unkept, perhaps flower beds. The overall effect of the entire vicinity was one of unease. The boy who grew up too fast had been many places far more outwardly intimidating than this, one doesn't track down Death Eaters in the nicest of areas, but none of those places had ever had this sort of effect on him. He'd been trying to gather the courage to actually go inside all night, but to no avail. He didn't know what would be waiting for him inside.

Actually, he did know. And that's what was making his so terribly afraid. He was waiting for himself inside the bar. Somewhere inside there was a darker version of himself, a man who he could easily become with the slightest push. That was also waiting for him. The push that would send him over the edge, the push that would make him into someone the likes of which the world had never seen before. And Harry was afraid. Yet he was also intrigued. And if the pounding in his chest was anything to go by, he was almost excited, if that were possible. But the worst part of it all was that he didn't understand. Harry had made it a point through all of his young life to know what was going on around him, to know that he was at least marginally in control of the situation. Even when he was being manipulated and pushed around like a pawn, at least he knew how it was going to end.

This scenario, he had no idea how it was going to play its course. There was no telling what would happen to him once he stepped inside. There were too many variables, too many possible outcomes. Did he even want what was being offered to him within the dank confines of the Counting House? Nothing like this had ever been extended to him before, but he had also never gone looking for such a thing either. There were so many questions that he needed to ask, questions that were ripping larger holes in him that couldn't be filled by things like the Order or his so called friends. He needed the help of a stranger, someone who wouldn't judge him as the hero who had finally gone astray.

It had only been a matter of time. No one could stay pure forever. Not when they were forced to take in the horrors of war every day since they were only a child. No one could grow up in such an atmosphere and expect to escape unscathed. An orphan, cast into a dark and troubled world all alone could never hope to make for himself a decent life, not when they were the one that everyone else was counting on to give them the very same thing. They merely saw him as the scapegoat, the one heroically taking the fall so the rest of the world could live happily ever after. One life is worth far less than thousands, everyone knew that. But Harry knew that it was time to fend for himself, to not think about all the people he would never know and finally look out for number one. It was just him.

Reality had left him more than a year ago, but it was only just now that it was starting to actually show. Thank god no one could actually see him as how he was, the world would be in a state of panic. They wouldn't be able to comprehend why their hero was slowly closing in on himself, going outside less and less, choosing instead to stay inside with his darkness. It was soothing there. There were no bright lights and inquisitive eyes. No questions that he couldn't answer, no mothers crying over lost sons and daughters, thanking him with their words but blaming him with their minds. He could see it in all of their eyes. Whenever a life was lost, his was praised, they all claimed they were glad he was still living and strong, but in truth they merely wanted their loved one back. Harry had no loved ones. And he hadn't been given that title by anyone.

So what was the point? He had no reason to live through this war for there was no one that really wanted him to. If he died in the course of it, they would have banquets in his honor, monuments would be erected in honor of the boy who died, there would be holidays named after him. But would anyone actually care? Not bloody likely. He was the only one looking out for Harry Potter, what would it matter if the world lost him to the war or lost him to the darkness within himself? Either way they could find a new hope for themselves, someone else to take his place.

No. Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts, praying to whatever god was listening that he wouldn't have these sorts of ideas. That he could do his job and go home, get the rest he so dearly needed and deserved. A cold rain had begun to fall and he pulled his cloak around him tighter. Maybe tonight wasn't the best time to be looking for the man. He probably wasn't even out in weather like this, no sane person would be. Harry bit back a bitter laugh at the irony of his thought.

The man he was looking for was the farthest from sane that anyone had ever seen, so maybe he would be out in the cold and the damp. The boy sighed, at least now he knew that the man was a Muggle, that was a step in the right direction. There wasn't even the faintest tingle of magic in the air, there couldn't be a wizard around for a hundred miles. The deadness of the night almost worried him, it wasn't natural. He had to get home. There wasn't anything else that could be done in conditions like these and no one would begrudge him some time by the fire before he apparated back to finish his assignment. There was no shame in what he wanted to do, anyone else would have, had they been in his position.

Harry turned on his heel to go back to his apparation spot, but stopped abruptly, his eyes widening as his heart all but stopped beating in his chest. It was him.


	4. Introductions

Disclaimer: Same as the three chapters before.

A/N: This chapter I have to say thank you to the following readers for leaving me such nice reviews last chapter. **Diana** (although you're anonymous, I so know it's you!), the lovely **Moonlight-6056** whose beautiful reviews every chapter make me way too happy, **Wine and Watercolour** for the wonderful insight and advice, and **Psycho8** for she's been reading my pathetic drivel since the sixth grade. I hope that you're all just as pleased with this chapter. I'm so so sorry it's taken me this long, I still don't have a laptop to call my own and my sister is on hers all the time. But here you go, I love you all!

Coming King

Chapter Four

This was the man from the dream, the one whose face had been haunting Harry's every sleeping moment, sticking around after the fact to taunt him with clues and fragments of disjointed sentences. He had dwelled for days on the one dream, not being able to decide if he should come after the man or not. Not coming had never been a real option, though, for he knew what had to be done. He was being given a chance to actually save the world, it was what he'd been trying to do for so many long years now. He couldn't just let it slip away from him without even trying to find out how he would succeed.

In the dreams the man was merely a wisp of something inconsequential and Harry had almost thrown off the idea of him, thinking that his mind had simply created this average man as a response to improper sleeping patterns and a failing diet. But he wasn't just a dream. He was actual flesh and actual blood. Harry could see the faintest ghost of the man's breath on the air and marveled at the sight. It seemed almost impossible that one who had visited him while he slept could possibly be real, but here he was. He was coming closer with every step, bringing with him something that the boy who lived was both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of. And Harry was blocking his path.

The man gave Harry a polite nod as he easily side-stepped him, his feet leaving the concrete for only a moment as he made the slightest indention in the grass that flanked the sidewalk. His head was down and his hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets, totally unassuming and thoroughly forgettable in every way. Harry was unable to keep the shock and disappointment from his face, he had been expecting something so much more than that. Shouldn't there be some great sign from god that this was going to change his life forever?

He went so far as to look around for the sign, the great miracle that was supposed to be happening somehow, but when he found nothing he returned his gaze to the back of the man making his way to the quiet building before him.

This couldn't even constitute as a meeting, only a passing. If the man had been anyone else, it would have just been another dull moment in the life of Harry Potter. But the man wasn't anyone else. He was the one Harry had been so diligently seeking. The one who would decide what to make of the rest of his life. And he was letting him slip through his fingers.

The boy looked up in despair as he watched his quarry duck silently into the bar. There should have been more than that, he shouldn't have let him just walk past. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Harry's eyes danced almost frantically over the outside of the building, looking for something but not knowing what it was. He didn't understand what had gone wrong, why the man didn't know him. Perhaps if they were both in the light.

No, Harry cast the thought away, unable to keep the bitterness even from his thoughts. He was that unexceptional, nothing at all remotely out of the ordinary about him. There was nothing to distinguish him even from the rough brick walls and torn up cobblestones of Tayside. The very man who had given him hope for something greater than himself didn't even know his face. And that was more than he could bear.

It was all right for those he didn't know to ignore him, to not care about who he was, but those who knew him even the slightest bit were now aware that he was done being ignored. He had been a chess piece for far too long. All one had to do was listen to the young man to remain on his good side. It was such an easy thing to do, yet it seemed to be such a bother to almost everyone.

That was why so many authority figures were no longer on friendly terms with Harry. They saw him as unimportant, someone they didn't need to listen to or critique all that carefully. He had vowed to make people like that think otherwise. And this man was supposed to help him with that. Why wasn't he helping? If he could take down at least one madman, maybe the world would see the larger one as more reachable, far more accessible that he ever had been before.

But perhaps there was some hope that he couldn't yet see. Harry desperately clung to his last chance, the thought that there was always the possibility that the man simply hadn't looked properly, hadn't seen him clearly, would know him if only he offered himself.

His face quietly determined, Harry squared his shoulders and detached himself from the shadows. There would be no going home tonight.

---

"Draco, are you trying to make me angry?" the Dark Lord asked rhetorically, his cloak swirling menacingly as it so very often did. "Because you really haven't done a single thing to please me the entire time you've been in my service."

"Forgive me, Lord," Draco said from his position on the floor, groveling just enough not to seem too pathetic, yet prostrating himself just enough to be the good little servant. It was a fine line to walk, but somehow he managed to pull it off every time his arm burned and he was forced to pop in for a fun time around the campfire with his closest enemy/friend combos. Yet he refused to let his pain show to the rest of the assembled Death Eaters; that would just be too much even for him. He had to keep some kind of respect, the little bit that it was.

"I'm trying my best to serve you." He resisted the urge to add "Truly, I am!" to the end of his sentiment and clutch his heart for effect. Melodramatics were far below him for the most part though smoke and mirrors weren't always out of the question.

Voldemort sighed and Draco inwardly rolled his eyes, a mental profanity sounding through his heavily shielded mind. The precursor to a new round of fresh curses was usually a sigh. Or a rhetorical question, for that matter. Oh goodie, he'd been given the magical opportunity for both! He was not left wanting.

He let only a gasp escape his lips as the Cruciatus was lifted from him. Once the pain was gone, it was gone. It wasn't as though he let it stick around to mess with his actions. He then easily straightened himself up so he was standing before his Lord, he wouldn't allow himself to bow any more than he absolutely had to. He saw his father smiling coldly from up on the dias next to their master, his pride nearly evident on his face. It wouldn't do for two Malfoy's to be showing emotion at once, that was almost enough cause for the world to end.

"I will find both of them for you, my Lord," Draco swore, wondering if he could cross his fingers and take it all back later. "You will have them before the month is through."

"I had better, young Malfoy," the Dark Lord warned, the threatening words rolling easily off his tongue. It wasn't forked, like everyone imagined it. "Or you will be just as dead as Potter."

Draco's inner self lashed out irrationally. "Super."

---

The inside of the bar was just as nondescript as the outside. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other pub. Even the men inside were the same ones that Harry had seen across the entire country. They were all tired, the same slouch of hard work bending every spine over pints of watery beer. The conversation was forced at best and most eyes stayed either on the cracked tables or the football game being broadcast on the shabby television set in the corner. The floor was unswept and spoke of years of travel by working class boots, heavy traffic when times got especially bad or strangely better than the norm.

Not one head lifted off worn hands when Harry pushed open the door, something that relieved him to no end. Everyone ignored him, so he in turn ignored everyone. He thought it would be best to fit in as well as he knew how, no one would know to notice a scrawny boy with dark hair. He took a seat at the end of the bar and prayed for the second time in one night. Prayed that this wouldn't be as hard as he knew it was going to be. Because everything in his life kept getting more and more difficult as the days progressed. Because nothing could ever seem to go his -

"Excuse me," said a quiet voice from his right, "but is this seat taken?"

Harry tried to keep his eyes from widening at the one who had appeared almost from nowhere beside him. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite as thorny as he had first surmised. Not trusting his voice to support his words, he merely dipped his head forwards in a nod and gestured to the empty seat. The man sank gracefully into it and motioned for the barkeeper, one hand absently fiddling with the hem of his coat, his fingers pulling at the frayed edge. Harry's eyes were riveted on that simple nervous habit; he couldn't begin to know what those hands had done, how they occupied themselves.

Yet the same could be said for his own hands. They had done countless things that many would consider horrible if only he had been on the other side of the war. Death Eaters were tried and sentenced every day for doing things less than he had done. The only difference was who the acts were being committed against. That was the deciding factor in nearly every aspect of the battles. They would curse a young girl while he would curse a different young girl. The only thing separating the two actions was that the girl he was forced to kill was in a white mask and a robe. Yet he was a hero while the other man was sent to Azkaban.

"And for you?" the man inquired lightly.

Harry snapped his eyes back up and realized albeit too late that he hadn't been paying attention. He had let himself be distracted by the inconsequential nattering of his own mind yet again. "Sorry?"

"To drink," he was told. "What can our bartender get for you this evening?"

"Whatever you're having's fine," he stammered quickly, desperately trying to cover the nerves that were being brought on by absolutely nothing. Relax, just breathe. "Thanks."

No words were exchanged as the bartender brought over two pints of bitter. No words were exchanged as they drank. And no words were exchanged when the glasses were refilled and slid back towards them. As the minutes ticked away, Harry found himself becoming more and more of an emotional wreck. And the alcohol wasn't helping. It seldom did. He'd escaped into its constantly open arms before and had come to the same results on more than one occasion. He had studied the man next to him surreptitiously over the rim of his glass for the last quarter of an hour and had come to not one conclusion.

He looked like many other men in their mid-twenties that Harry had seen. Not unattractive, but not conventionally handsome. Just there. He didn't have the hardened eyes of a killer, nor did he have the soft eyes of the naïve. The only thing even remotely startling about his eyes was the shade, a rather pleasant tone of blue that one could instantly be comfortable around. But Harry wasn't.

On the contrary, he became steadily more nervous with every passing moment. He was somehow reminded of the night he had lost his virginity. It had been spent waiting as he chewed his lips raw, wondering if it was ever going to happen, both wanting and dreading it. It couldn't come fast enough, yet he wanted to put if off for as long as he possibly could. It was an unknown that he almost didn't want to meet, but couldn't humanly avoid.

The man finally noticed the shaking of the young man's hands and said, "Come on, why don't we go outside for some air." It was more of a demand than a question and Harry found himself immediately relieved that he wouldn't have to take control of the situation. Control was not his forte.

He let himself be led out of the Counting House and they slowly began to walk down the deserted street. The rain had all but stopped, but the wind had picked up in its wake, cold and dead and utterly fitting. Harry wrapped his arms around himself to try to ward off the chill, but his coat did little to protect him. He gratefully took the scarf that was offered to him and found himself wondering what he had done to deserve the kindness of this stranger. Found himself thinking that perhaps he was wrong about the man he walked with.

"I don't mean to sound too forward," the man said quietly, barely making himself heard over the wind, "but I'm not very good at subtlety." At the raised eyebrows he got in return, he continued in a very well practiced sounding rush, as though he asked this same question in the same way every night with the same results. "Would you want to come back to my place?"

"Yes," Harry said instantly, not bothering to even consider it. "Absolutely."

The man let out an incredulous laugh. "It's never been that easy before," he admitted. "I don't even know your name." He stopped walking and extended his hand, making Harry positive that he was the man he'd been searching for. "My friends know me as Pilate."

Harry took his hand, wondering about the state of the friends he had mentioned. "You can call me Judas."


End file.
